


The Woman in Hampstead Parish Burial Ground

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, F/M, Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration, Heed the Warning, but remember that i love a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: The first time he sees her he’s seven and visiting relatives in London with his parents and older brother. Mycroft at fourteen is all teenage aloofness and disdain, at first ignoring the tug on his hand by his over-eager sibling who begs him to let him explore the cemetery so like and yet so unlike the one at their old house.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 12
Kudos: 73
Collections: 2020 Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration





	The Woman in Hampstead Parish Burial Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post:  
> https://mizjoely.tumblr.com/post/633415662333837312/hornedchick-darkescapism-london-hampstead

**Autumn 1983**

_The Parish Church of St John-at-Hampstead, London, England_

The first time he sees her he's seven and visiting relatives in London with his parents and older brother. Mycroft at fourteen is all teenage aloofness and disdain, at first ignoring the tug on his hand by his over-eager sibling who begs him to let him explore the cemetery so like and yet so unlike the one at their old house.

( _Why don't they live at Musgrave anymore? He thinks something happened to the big old house but he doesn't like to think about it and so he just...doesn't. But he remembers the funny gravestones where the dates were all wrong and wants to see if there are any here that are like that._ )

"Please, Mykey, it's not like we hafta be somewhere!" he wheedles. And they don't; they're just out 'getting fresh air' which both brothers recognize as code for 'the grownups need to talk about stuff without the children listening'. (And oh does Mykey _hate_ being called a child!)

With a loud, long-suffering sigh, Mycroft gives in, reluctantly allowing his over-eager younger sibling to pull him through the wrought-iron gate to the fence bounding the Hampstead Parish Burial Ground.

It's autumn, a clear, sunny day that matches Sherlock's mood even though he can tell Mykey is carrying rain and dark clouds with him the way he has been for the last year. Probably because they had to move out of Musgrave after Redbeard died - how had he died? Oh yeah - he got sick and had to get put down, the way Farmer Fisher's sheepdog Valhalla had been put down two weeks ago. Some kind of non-English sickness - Redbeard, not Valhalla, he got the cancer - because Sherlock is certain he heard Mummy say something about Europe right after it happened.

He frowns at the thought, then shakes his head to chase it away. He doesn't want to think about Redbeard or Europe, or else he'll end up all clouds and gloom like Mykey.

His brother has plopped onto a bench, slumping with arms folded and feet crossed at the ankle, lips pursed in disapproval as a gust of wind blows leaves down upon him - gold and red and dusty grey all scattered to the ground as Mykey brushes them off his trousers. "You've got ten minutes," he announces, in that lofty, superior way he has ever since he started spending more time with Uncle Rudy. "Then we're going back to the townhouse."

Sherlock nods, his mind already busy cataloguing the different types of headstones - some flat to the ground, some sticking up a bit, some dead white and others grey and overgrown with lichen. He dashes off, eager to find the most interesting grave, to check out the dates and maybe see if he can deduce anything about the people buried under them.

He moves this way and that, not finding anything interesting, darting off when something catches his eye, getting further and further away from Mykey and his boring bench, nearly reaching the opposite side of the cemetery from where they entered...and that's when he sees her.

"Wow," he whispers as he stares up at her. She's just a statue like so many other statues in the old churchyard, but even though she's made of the same type of grey stone, there's something so alive, so real about her that she looks like she could just step down off her pedestal and walk around with him.

"Whoever made you did a great job," he says, as if she could hear him, as if she needed any kind of reassurance from a little kid. She's wearing a long, fancy dress and some kind of shawl-thing but even though the statue-maker ( _sculptor_ , his brain's Mycroft-voice reminds him, snottily) has clearly spent a lot of time on her clothes, it's her face that captures his imagination.

She looks...kind. And a little sad. But mostly kind. Like she wouldn't mind reading him a story, telling him all about the people buried there.

( _Because yes, he understands that this graveyard is real, unlike the one at Musgrave, and that real people who've died are buried here. He's seven, but he's a Holmes and even though Mykey keeps telling him 'don't be smart, Sherlock, I'm the smart one' he knows he's not stupid. Not like so many of the other kids his parents keep trying to get him to make friends with. He isn't sure_ why _he doesn't want to find someone to play pirates with, since it's his favorite game, but he just doesn't. Probably because he loved to play that game with Redbeard, and Redbeard is...is…_ )

"I wonder what your name is," he says aloud, shaking off the sad thoughts and memories that keep trying to creep back into his brain. Instead he squats down, brushing aside a bit of dirt that's got into the carved words before leaning forward on his hands and reading them aloud.

" _Miss Margaret Hooper, Spinster._ " He struggles a bit with the unfamiliar word, not how to pronounce it but what it means, and his face lights up as he realizes (no, _deduces_ ) that it must mean an unmarried lady since she's a Miss and not a Missus. " _Born 10th July 1675. Called Molly In Life and Embraced By Death This 6th Day of January 1695._ "

He feels that combination of awe and excitement again as he gazes up at the statue's face. She's sorta pretty, with her big, sad eyes and the way the tip of her nose is upturned like the pictures of fairies he's seen in a picture book _(whose picture book, not his, surely, but he can't quite remember who it belonged to…_ )

"Cool," he breathes out, because talking is easier than thinking on days like this when his brain won't cooperate. "You were born on the same day Redbeard died, but you died on my birthday!"

' _Tis why I led thy steps here, youngster. I was curious to see thee, and to tell you that I grieve with thee for the loss of thy beloved friend._

The voice is soft, the merest whisper, full of sadness but still kinda...sweet. Creepy, talking about Redbeard like that, but still sweet.

( _Later, before he deletes this entire meeting from a mind palace he's yet to construct, he'll scoff at his childish fancies, but for now, he's absolutely fascinated._ )

_What is thy name, youngling?_

"Sherlock. Well, it's really William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Everyone calls me Will but I like Sherlock better," he confides, settling back on his heels but keeping his face tilted up so he can still look at her. He knows it's the statue talking to him, even though he also knows that statues don't usually talk. So it's probably a ghost, which makes sense; who else would talk to him in a graveyard but a ghost? It's cool that ghosts don't only come out at night, and even cooler that Mykey is totally wrong about them, saying they don't exist.

' _Tis a fine name for a fine young man. I am pleased to make thine acquaintance. My name, as you have seen, is Margaret, but it would please me were you to call me Molly._

"Molly," he repeats, nodding acceptance. ( _Nothing seems odd to him about this encounter; he's neither frightened nor spooked, only excited to be making a friend even if it's one his parents probably wouldn't like very much._ ) "How did you die?"

Before she can answer his (probably really rude) question, he hears Mykey calling him, sounding irritated the way he always does these days. Probably because he's losing so much weight with all the dieting and stuff he's been doing lately. He was a lot nicer when he was fat. Well, he's still fat and Sherlock likes to tease him about it because it's one of the only taunts Mykey responds to. So he jumps to his feet, waving good-bye to the statue - to Molly - and running off, calling out, "Coming, Fatty!" and giggling at the sound of Mykey's angry shout not to call him that.

**Autumn 1990**

The next time he sees her, it's seven years later and _he's_ the moody teenager. His parents have dragged him to London to celebrate Mycroft's new job doing something boring for the British government while he works on his second degree in three years.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he kicks his way through the autumn leaves that have gathered against the wrought-iron fence surrounding the church graveyard. What's it called? He looks up, bored, and sees the name St. John-at-Hampstead, about to continue down the street, but something about that name makes him pause, and look around.

His glance settles onto the statue of a woman, illuminated by the last rays of late-afternoon sunlight, and he frowns at the stirring of familiarity he feels. Has he seen this statue before? ( _He has, but deleted that entire incident after asking Mycroft about ghosts and being mercilessly teased for even thinking about believing in 'such complete bullshit'._ )

He starts to move on, hesitates, shrugs and jumps the fence, landing on the muddy ground to study it more closely. Fog is starting to roll in, the sun has set below the surrounding buildings, and it's getting dark, but graveyards don't scare him, never have ( _why not, he can't remember, doesn't want to remember, if only there were something he could do to keep his mind under better control!_ ) and he pulls a lighter out of his pocket, not to chase away the darkness or light one of the cigarettes he's stolen from Uncle Rudy's desk, but to read the inscription on the stone beneath the statue's feet.

"Margaret Hooper," he murmurs. "Called Molly." He glances up at the statue's face, shrouded in fog, able to make out only a few details in the growing darkness - an upturned, Pixieish nose, thin lipped mouth, big brown ( _brown?_ ) eyes…

His own eyes widen and he stumbles back a step before remembering that he's not afraid of graveyards or the dark, that he's fourteen and nearly a man and men don't believe in silly things like ghosts or statues with stone eyes that suddenly turn very real, very warm and brown, with stone lips that part and seem to whisper his name.

 _Sherlock...why hast thou sought me out again, after so long?_ There is definitely amusement in that voice - where is it coming from? _Dost thou still wish to know the manner of my death?_

"It's a fucking trick," he mutters in response, looking carefully for some sign of wires, or a speaker, anything to prove he's being pranked. Probably by Mycroft; Fatty must have deduced he'd slip away from his boring party, but how could he have known this was where he'd end up? Even Mycroft couldn't predict the future, no matter how smart he proclaimed himself to be!

Fine, not Mycroft, then. Someone else, an opportunistic pranker just waiting for some poor unsuspecting sod to wander into the churchyard and have the shit scared out of them. Probably for one of those stupid prank shows that kept popping up on the telly. "I'm not afraid of you," he says belligerently, flicking the lighter back on and once again scrutinizing the statue and nearby environs for the equipment he knows is hidden there.

_Nor should you be, child._

"And I'm not a child," he snaps, as much at the amusement in the woman's voice as at the appellation. "So stop playing these stupid sodding games and just give it up. I won't sign any stupid waivers for your show so you may as well wait for an actual idiot to show up and get tricked by you."

_So much anger in thee. What happened to the joyful child thou wert?_

"I grew up," he snarls, backing away from the grave. This isn't fun anymore - not that it ever really was - and he no longer cares to find out why he felt drawn to this particular graveyard and this particular grave in the first place.

_I was poisoned by the man who sought to marry me._

He pauses in the act of placing his hands on the low fence, preparatory to jumping over it and back onto the pavement. "What?"

_The manner of my death, about which you were so curious when last we spoke. I was poisoned by a man I despised when I refused to accept his proposal of marriage._

The cheery voice - which he reluctantly concedes might be only in his head - has turned melancholy. "Talk about overreacting," he says, drawn into conversation with a supposed ghost despite himself.

The sensation of laughter sounds in his ears (in his mind?), rueful, but amused. _Indeed. But as I learned to my sorrow, James Moriarty was ne'er one to take rejection well._

"Sounds like a real prick," he responds, again eliciting that ghostly trill of laughter. He's completely forgotten his desire to flee, fascinated in spite of himself, wondering dimly if it's good or bad that his flash of panic has completely dissipated. "Too bad you died three hundred years ago, I'd have kicked his ass for you."

_A stripling lad against a man full grown? I fear James would have laid thee flat even if the fight were fair - and alas, he never was one to fight fair. 'Twas one of the many reasons I knew I could never marry him - bully that he was!_

There is indignation in her tone, and Sherlock opts to ignore her calling him a 'stripling lad' in favor of egging her on. "What else was wrong with him? Was he spotty? Fat?" He summons up the worst insult he can think of. "Stupid?"

_Nay, he was quite comely, of a superior mind, well educated for an Irishman of his class. Many thought well of him, my dear father included, but he would not force me to marry against my will._

"And that's when this Moriarty douche murdered you."

_Indeed. Not a fortnight passed between my rejection of his suit and my untimely death._

A despondent sigh follows those words, and Sherlock finds himself moved to uncharacteristic sympathy. "So is that why you're stuck here, why you haven't moved on to whatever afterlife presumably exists? Or is this all there is? Do we just hang out at our graves after we die?"

_I know not, having encountered no other souls in my lonely exile. Eagerly did I wait when my dear father was buried next to me, but no sign of him did I see, nor that of any other unfortunate buried here._

"Maybe he put a curse on you," Sherlock suggests, only half-facetiously. Why not? This entire conversation is insane; _he's_ probably insane, or going schizo, isn't that what it means when you start hearing voices like this?

Silence; no response from Molly the Friendly Ghost. He opens his mouth to say something, he isn't sure what, when he feels a hand on his shoulder and yelps in surprise.

"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing here?"

It's Mycroft; of course it is. "Jesus, Mycroft, what are you trying to do, give me a fucking heart attack?"

"Watch your language," Mycroft sniffs. "You know how it annoys Mummy. It's a good thing I'm the one who noticed that you ran off. They're watching old home movies," he adds, correctly deducing Sherlock's next question. "So I slipped out to look for you. I thought I might find you here."

"Why?" Sherlock asks, curious in spite of himself.

"Because you were so fascinated by this place when you were a child - well," Mycroft adds with one of his patented snarky smirks, "a younger child." He ignores Sherlock's angry glare, looking around in distaste. "Come on, we'd best get back before we're missed. The number of visiting relatives has thinned out considerably since you left."

With a scowl Sherlock allows Mycroft to herd him back to Uncle Rudy's townhouse, but not without a single backward glance at the statue of Molly Hooper.

He's not sure it's anything but his imagination, but he thinks he sees her raise her hand in a gesture of farewell.

**Autumn 1997**

He's twenty-one and high as a fucking kite. The drugs, oh the blessed, glorious drugs are singing through his veins, and his mind is absolutely fucking _silent_ for once. Thank God for the one non-asshole friend of Sebastian Wilkes, what was his name? Doesn't matter, he's the one who put Sherlock in touch with the Magic Man and that's all he needs to remember about him.

He's wandering the streets, stumbling over the pavement giggling to himself, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, alone alone alone which is the only way he wants to be after finding out the truth about - well, everything. His past. His future. His NOW.

Redbeard wasn't a dog. Musgrave was deliberately burnt down. His sister ( _his sister! He had a sister!_ ) isn't actually dead. Not that he remembered her, but his parents and brother apparently had and just chose to fucking _let him delete her_ after they were told ( _lied to!_ ) that she had died in a fire at the mental institution to which she'd been committed in the months following Redbeard's presumed death.

No, not just his death. His _murder_. Murdered by Sherlock's little sister, who was only five at the time.

 _Christ, what is_ wrong _with his family?_

He'd still be ignorant of her existence if it wasn't for Uncle Rudy being hit by that bus. Served him right, the bastard, always playing the jolly old family eccentric with his evening gowns and his fondness for expensive Egyptian blend cigarettes. Good old Uncle Rudy, who had given Mycroft his first government job and made sure he took all the right classes at Uni, grooming his replacement the whole fucking time.

Turning Mykey into his clone, into the new generation of family secret-keepers. The one meant to step into Uncle Rudy's high-heeled shoes, according to the letter Sherlock had intercepted only a few hours earlier.

He and Mum and Dad were at the reading of the will, which Sherlock had refused to attend, preferring to sulk (Mykey's word, not his) at Uncle Rudy's townhouse. He'd seen the worried looks his parents had traded, and resented their concern even as part of him was reassured that yes, they still cared enough about him to worry about what sort of trouble he might get into if left on his own even for a few hours.

But leave them they had, and so he was the one to answer the door when the bell rang, and he was the one to say yes, I'm Mycroft Holmes, to the messenger delivering a thick, important-looking letter in Uncle Rudy's distinctive hand. He was the one to open that letter, because why not? Mykey was being a royal snot lately, Sherlock was bored and tired of being lectured about his academic record ( _he'd bring his grades back up, he always did, and as for the drugs, he was a_ user _not an addict, why couldn't anyone understand that_ ), and his curiosity was aroused.

That's when it all fell apart, tumbling down around him, his carefully constructed mind palace and the sealed rooms of his memories crashing, smashing, destroyed with every word he read.

Eurus. Not _Europe_. His sister Eurus, an 'era defining genius'. His baby sister, the one who taught him how to play violin.

Who burnt Musgrave down.

Who tried to kill him and the entire family.

Who the family believed _had_ killed Redbeard. His best friend.

Victor Trevor.

All of it laid out in black and white in a letter cautioning Mycroft to carry on the lies, the deceptions. To keep the truth from his parents, from him, to _let sleeping dogs lie_ , to _keep the asset safely hidden away from the outside world lest she do more harm_.

But yes, by all means let's also use her incredible mind 'for Queen and Country.' Waste not, want not, wasn't that the old saying?

His giggles turn to bitter, angry laughter that threatens to morph into tears, and he stumbles against a low wrought-iron fence. He looks through bleary eyes and recognizes the place. "Hampstead fucking Parish Cemetery," he slurs. "Why th' fuck not." He staggers a bit but manages to jump the fence without impaling himself, and does a weaving, stumbling victory dance that ends with him collapsed against the base of a very familiar statue. One he hasn't seen for -

_It has become a habit, young Sherlock, for thee to visit every seven years._

She doesn't sound amused this time, only sad. Which is appropriate, considering his current, fucked-up state of both mind and body. "Twice's a coincidence, three time's a pattern," he mutters, hanging his head and leaning his wrists on his bent knees, his back against the cool, solid stone on which her epitaph is carved.

_What troubles thee so, young Sherlock?_

He holds up the letter, waves it in the air as if to show it to her. "Lies, all lies, thas' all my uncle ever did was lie t'us."

_Hast thou turned to spirits in thy distress, Sherlock? Thou art surely unwell in thy imbibing._

He ignores the concern in her voice, pretends that all he can hear is judgement, and tells her to fuck off, to leave him alone. "Alone p'tects me," he declares, balling up the letter and stuffing the pages into the pocket of his hoodie, stumbles back to his feet in order to gaze up at her as best he can with his mind so muddled. The blessed silence has turned into a chaotic, discordant cacophony and he clamps his hands over his ears to try and quiet it. The world is tilting, or is it him? He feels sick, cold and shivering in the damp, and far back in his mind he realizes he's taken too much this time, injected something far stronger into his veins than the seven percent solution he's used to.

_Sherlock? Sherlock? What ails thee?_

"Overdose," he manages to croak out before collapsing in a heap, the world spinning into darkness and flashes of too-bright light and overwhelming sounds and smells and everything, everything is too much, too much, too much...

Later they tell him he hallucinated the woman, Molly, stepping down off her marble pedestal and cradling his head in her lap. That he hallucinated her encouraging words, her frantic pleas for him to wake up, to leave the cemetery, to seek help that she cannot provide him.

_I have no antidote for the poison thou hast ingested, young fool! Go, seek a physician, lest you find yourself a permanent resident of this place, trapped as I am for eternity! Go!_

He makes his way to his feet somehow. He makes it all the way to a shop that's still open before once again collapsing, this time in front of the horrified eyes of the young clerk behind the till. He is unconscious and close to death by the time emergency services arrive to rush him to the nearest hospital in an ambulance but they save his life. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), they find the letter and through the address are able to locate his parents and brother, who come rushing to see him, to berate and console him at the same time.

He manages to retrieve the letter before his parents see it. He even manages to conceal it from Mycroft long enough to hide it away. Not forever, of course, just long enough for him to decide exactly what he wants to do about it. All the lies, all the secrets - Mycroft kept things from them, it's only fair to keep this from him until the time is right.

He thinks about trying to slip away again, to return to the graveyard before the family heads back to Sussex, to thank her for saving him - because he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that her words, her frantic terror on his behalf, is what gave him the strength to seek help - but in the end he never gets the chance. He's being watched too closely, especially by Mycroft, and he suspects it's not the fear that he might overdose again that worries his older brother, but what secret it is he's keeping.

Mycroft finds the letter; of course he does. He's sitting on Sherlock's bed the night before they leave, holding the carefully smoothed out pages in his hand when Sherlock slouches into the room to get ready for bed. "You weren't meant to read this," he says, looking up at his brother through troubled eyes.

Sherlock laughs, a short, sharp noise entirely lacking in humor except of the blackest, coldest sort. "Nope," he says, popping the P obnoxiously as he lounges against the doorframe.

"Will you tell Mum and Dad about it?" Mycroft asks after a long, assessing silence.

Sherlock shrugs. "Dunno. Haven't made up my mind. Depends on you, I reckon."

Myroft's expression turns wary. "On me? In what way?"

Sherlock knows it's wrong, what he's about to propose, but he really doesn't give a fuck. All he wants to do is live his own life the way he wants to, and this is his ticket out of family expectations. "You keep them from finding out about whatever trouble I get myself into for, let's call it the next couple of decades, and I keep my mouth shut about how you and Uncle Rudy have been keeping our baby sister locked up after lying about her death in that asylum fire. Seems like a fair deal to me, what do you say, bro?" He flashes Mycroft the most obnoxious, blatantly fake smile he can summon up.

He ignores the murmur of disappointment he hears at the back of his mind, the sad, soft sigh of a woman who doesn't really exist, and looks at his brother expectantly.

"Fine," Mycroft says, coming to his feet with a tight smile. "Nobody needs to know." And he sweeps out of the room, leaving his brother alone with his toxic mixture of emotions and the burden of a secret neither wishes to bear weighing them down.

**Autumn 2004**

He lives in London now. He's twenty-eight and a Graduate Chemist, for whatever that's worth, with an equal interest in drugs and consulting with several DI's at the Met. At least, that's the appearance he's careful to give to the world and especially to Mykey.

His actual, consuming interest is in ferreting out the location of the top secret facility to which his sister has been consigned since she was six years old. Sure, he could just ask Mycroft to tell him, but where's the fun in that? Besides, that would tip his hand, and he's gotten into the family habit of keeping secrets and lying and doing things behind everyone's back.

Mum and Dad still live in Sussex; they visit, now and then, and he's careful to present the mask they expect; distant, consumed by his Work, too busy and too distracted by his life to make room in it for them except on rare occasions. Mycroft has sold Uncle Rudy's townhouse and lives in a mansion in Belgravia; Sherlock lives in a few cheap rooms on Montague Street and spends every cent he earns on his private passion.

Today is the day he finds his sister. He just has to deal with this new client, and then he's off to Sherrinford.

**oOo**

He's not quite sure how he found his way here, to her statue, but when he blinks back to temporary consciousness that's where he is, at the foot of her pedestal, lying curled up on her grave, hands ineffectually trying to hold back the blood that's draining out of him, staining his clothes, the ground beneath him...the skirts of her dress, her hands as she cradles him close for the second time in seven years.

_Sherlock, Sherlock, I fear not even a physician could save thee, were I able to summon one for thee. How hast thou come to such a sad state? Why make thy way here?_

She's sad, she's mourning him, but why? He's been rude to her, disbelieved in her, deleted her or tried to more than once ( _it only worked the one time and never again, he's never been sure why, when her existence flies in the face of cold, hard reason, but he's never deleted a single detail of their three - now four - encounters, and it isn't only because she's the only supernatural being he's ever encountered, if she even exists outside his own mind…_ )

 _I exist Sherlock, as surely as thou dost._ Her hand, warm and alive, not cold stone, caresses his face, a tender, almost loving gesture, and he realizes he's said all of that aloud, in a low, rambling mumble that matches his muddied, rambling thoughts.

He looks up into brown eyes, so sad, so beautiful; her bonnet or hat or whatever has fallen off and he sees tumbles of wavy chestnut hair that looks soft to the touch; is it? He reaches up, threads his fingers through the dark strands, and yes, they're soft, good, he's glad, although he can't say why.

Something cold, wet, drips onto his cheek; she's crying, why is she crying? Oh yes, the blood, he's bleeding, he's dying, and didn't she ask what had happened to him?

"Shot," he croaks out, still stroking his (trembling) fingers through her hair. "My sister, found her, not at Sherrinford, got out somehow...tried to t-trick me into thinking she was someone else but I saw her, I _knew_ her, and she wasn't going to kill herself, or maybe she was? The gun, we wrestled for it, I don't think she meant to pull the trigger, but she's a homicidal genius so maybe she did?"

_Shh, hush, save thy strength._

Even though she's fully human to his senses now, her voice remains a soft whisper in his mind. He tries to laugh, coughs instead, and her fingers brush against his cheeks, his hair, and he turns his face enough to lay a soft kiss on her palm. "Stay with me?"

He's not begging; he's Sherlock Holmes, newly self-christened Consulting Detective. He works with NSY and private clients; he has a flat on Montague Street and a distant but polite relationship with his parents and a distant but wary relationship with his brother and his sister has shot him and now he's dying.

He recognizes the truth of that even as Molly - _his_ Molly, his one, true friend imaginary though she might be - likely is - assures him that she's going nowhere. She's never left, it's always been him who leaves her behind, so it's only fair that this time he stays with her.

 _I would that thou could leave me as thou hast always done, Sherlock._ She's admonishing him, the tears still falling from her eyes as he grows weaker and weaker. _I would give my blood for thee, had I any still in my veins. I have seen thee grow from a boy into a fine man, cut down too soon, and I grieve thy loss to the world._

"Not that big a loss," he whispers, regret at all the ways he fucked up his life coming to the forefront of his mind. "But at least my parents...they'll know the truth." He manages a grim smile. "At least I can give them that much...mailed it to them, the USB drive, Mycroft won't be able to, to lie to them anymore, I won't lie to them anymore, c-can't wait to...see Uncle Rudy...in hell…"

He falls silent, his breathing shallow, barely conscious as his heartbeat slows, begins to fade, but he manages one last smile as he hears her final words to him.

_Thy Uncle may be consigned to perdition for his misdeeds, sweet Sherlock, but I pray thou wilt pass to fairer pastures._

The last thing he feels as a living man is the press of her lips against his forehead, warm against his cooling flesh, and he is content.

**Epilogue**

It's early morning before his body is found, by a horrified jogger. He's lying atop the grave of one Margaret Hooper; oddly enough, even though he was clearly shot elsewhere before making his way to the church graveyard, his blood stains the clasped hands of her mortuary statue. The jogger claims he had a peaceful smile on his face, which his elder brother declares 'sentimental tripe' - but he's photographed holding a handkerchief to his face, clearly grieving at the memorial service his family holds the following week at the Parish Church of St John-at-Hampstead.

He's buried there, curiously enough at his brother's insistence, rather than at the family plot in Sussex. "He loved London, and this isn't the first time he visited this graveyard and this statue," is all he ever says by way of explanation. His parents allow it, distracted and distressed by not only their youngest son's death, but by the package of information they find waiting for them upon their return home after the inquiry formally ruling his death a homicide.

Mycroft Holmes has many, many uncomfortable conversations with his parents about the contents of that packet, and even more uncomfortable conversations with the staff at Sherrinford when it's discovered that his sister has escaped its supposedly secure confines on more than one occasion.

The one thing he never discovers is who shot his brother. When Eurus is tracked down to Sherlock's flat, she's in a catatonic state from which she never fully recovers, even after Mycroft finally, reluctantly gives in to his parent's pleas to see their daughter.

_Sorry, they're a bit over-the-top, my family._

Sherlock is observing his own funeral, perched on the top of a headstone just outside the church doors.

_They loved thee and grieve thy loss._

He smiles at Molly, pulls her into his embrace. ( _How he's able to feel her when they are both nothing more than wisps of energy, he's not sure, nor does he care to find out. Not yet. Not when all this is still so new, so fresh._ )

( _But someday he will find ways to experiment, to explore the admittedly limited confines of his new state of existence. He will tease Molly into modern speech and stumble his way through learning the cadence and rhythm of Early Modern English and examine the flora and fauna that make their home within this churchyard. He'll deduce visitors and brighten at the sweet sound of Molly's laughter and learn to enjoy eternity with the woman who taught him that such a thing existed._ )

For now, he is content to hold her, to feel her warmth, and to taste the sweetness of her lips when she shyly offers them for the first of many, many kisses they will share.

It's not the afterlife he'd ever been led to expect, but it's his - and, much like Molly, it's perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to vertual/vermofftiss for reading over the first part of this fic, and to nocturnias/sherlolly for reading the last bit of it over and declaring it Good Enough To Post. No one read over the epilogue so any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone. And just let me say, this story is not at ALL what I envisioned when I first saw the inspiration post a year ago (the original of which, sadly, I've lost track of). However, I'm pretty happy with how this turned out and I hope you are as well.


End file.
